Scoundrel of My Heart EPB Page 4

  He knew the greater the risk, the higher the return. Unfortunately, two investments had resulted in losses. One had yet to pay off, in spite of it showing earlier promise.

  But last night, after taking a good bit of the duke’s blunt, the man had invited him for a drink and mentioned that he was investing in model dwelling companies, which were building much-needed residences for the poor. While Griff had invested only half of the amount he had won the night before, with luck, he would eventually see himself with a small but steady income. As his finances allowed, he would follow with more investments.

  He had a spring in his step as he strode into the residence and handed his hat to the butler. “Is my sister about?”

  “She is enjoying her afternoon nap, my lord.”

  “As is Lady Kathryn, I assume.”

  “No, sir. She’s presently in the garden.”

  He didn’t particularly like the way his heart pounded a little harder at the thought of spending time with her alone. If he was wise, he’d retire to his bedchamber and read. But he’d spent the afternoon being wise and was in the mood to be a bit reckless.

  She was sitting on a cast-iron bench beneath the shade of an elm, near the delphiniums blooming in pink, purple, and white. But she was far more colorful in her lilac frock with her hair down and held in place with a white ribbon. He suspected she’d unpinned it before taking the afternoon rest his mother insisted all ladies required. A wide-brimmed straw bonnet rested near her feet. He was glad she’d dispensed with it, so her face wasn’t lost to shadows. She was staring into the distance, her delicate brow deeply furrowed, her bottom lip barely visible as she gnawed at what should only ever be kissed. On her lap sat her small writing desk, seemingly forgotten.

  “Aren’t you supposed to be napping?”

  She jerked her head in his direction, and for a brief span of time, it looked as though she was pleased to see him. Then just as quickly, she shuttered whatever emotions she was feeling, but still her smile, if not her eyes, remained warm. “It’s such a lovely afternoon that it seemed a shame to spend it indoors.”

  “You mustn’t let my mother find out. You’ll give her the vapors.”

  Her smile grew. “She does believe a lady must rest. I never nap at home and don’t seem to suffer for it in the evenings.” She tilted her head a fraction, like a puppy striving to figure out its master. “You didn’t join us for breakfast or luncheon.”

  “I had some matters to attend to and dined at the club. May I?” He indicated the empty half of the bench.

  “Please.” Reaching out, she tucked her voluminous skirt against her thigh as much as possible while he lowered himself to the cool metal, not bothering to lean away from her.

  The bench had been designed for lovers to take a rest while strolling through the gardens, so it placed him nearer to her than he’d ever been. The slight breeze caused her clean fragrance of delicious oranges—his favorite fruit—mixed with cinnamon to tease his nostrils. A few strands of her hair had escaped their bondage of ribbons in order to frame her delicate face. She didn’t look at him directly but offered a little bit more than her profile. He wished he was skilled at sketching. Instead he was left to commit the lovely image of her to memory. “What are you writing?”

  With a sigh, she gave him a sideways glance while her cheeks blossomed into a pinkish hue. “I’ve been striving to catalogue my good qualities.”

  “Ah, for your letter to the duke.” The blasted duke, the man who would know what it was to have her thigh pressed against his with no tightly woven threads to keep her silken warmth from him.

  She nodded, her cheeks brightening further, until they were possibly in danger of igniting. “It’s a sobering experience. I believe I’ve identified the reason I find myself close to being on the shelf. I’m rather unaccomplished and boring.”

  I very much doubt that. But he was beginning to understand she was much more modest than he’d ever assumed, and he found her modesty somewhat endearing. He doubted any other lady was struggling to list her accomplishments, suspected a good many of them would take liberties listing what they considered their best qualities. A skill at dancing they might not possess. A tendency toward wit and humor when nothing they ever said caused even a hint of a smile. Perfect management of a household when they’d yet to take any reins. He held out his hand. “May I?”

  She rolled her eyes with an exaggeration that would have had him taking his leave at any other time. “You’ll only laugh or tease me about them.”

  For the life of him, he couldn’t comprehend why he cared so much about what she’d written, why it was suddenly important that she gained what she desired. “I won’t. I promise.”

  Shifting slightly, she faced him more squarely, the small pleat between her auburn brows once again forming. “Why are you being kind to me? I’m accustomed to us sparring, not actually conversing.”

  Devil take him if he knew, but he wasn’t about to confess that. “Because the next time I return home after too much drink, I don’t want you tempted to send me round to the back. I’d prefer you help me up the stairs.”

  “You remembered everything?”

  “Everything.” The mischief in her eyes, the slight smile indicating she thought she was getting away with something wicked. He rather liked how triumphant she’d appeared when she’d believed herself to have the upper hand.

  Her sigh mingled with the whisper of the slight breeze, and a jolt of pure need traveled straight to his groin as he envisioned her sigh under a different circumstance, a carnal one where pleasure reigned. “I feel rather badly about my behavior toward you now.”

  “Only because you got caught.”

  A twitch of those pink lips. So much about her was fair. He wondered if the same applied to portions he couldn’t see.

  “Yes.”

  For a moment, he became disoriented, thinking she was confirming pale nipples and the pinkest of skin between her thighs. The next breath he released was not as steady as it should have been. “Well, for what it’s worth, neither my parents nor Althea would have let me in, either.”

  “Do you often get that drunk?”

  “Not often. I’d had a disappointing night at the gaming hell and was feeling both sorry for myself and cross with myself. Bad judgment on my part led to the disappointment. Last night went much better. Except for the spying bit.” He snapped his fingers. “Show me what you’ve written.”

  With a slow, tentative movement, she handed him the sheaf of paper.

  Skilled at whist.

  Mastered the pianoforte.

  Speak only when I have something important to say.

  The first two he couldn’t judge because he’d never played cards with her or heard her perform. The last was debatable and no doubt her attempt to demonstrate that she could be quiet, although she often engaged him when what she had to say wasn’t important at all—just a desire to needle, to elicit a reaction. He’d always been too quick to rise to the bait, mainly because any attention from her was better than none at all. But reading over her list again now, he knew no matter how she worded what she had identified as her strengths, the duke was going to toss her letter in the rubbish bin. Griff had guessed correctly. A woman couldn’t identify what attributes she possessed that would appeal to a man. “He wants quiet in a wife. He’s not going to play whist with you. He’s not going to ask you to entertain him with the pianoforte.”

  He couldn’t help but believe that in foregoing those pleasures with her, the duke would be poorer for it. “That you’ve written two qualities in which he’ll have no interest makes him likely to question the veracity of the third.”

  “What would you suggest, then?”

  “What are you willing to give me in exchange for my wisdom?”

  “You blackguard.” The teasing in her eyes caused a tightness in his chest. She’d known he’d want a favor. Contentment at her knowing him well enough to anticipate his move swept through him. “At the duke’s ball, I shall
save my first waltz for you.”

  “You expect me to wait a couple of weeks to claim what I am owed?”

  “Anticipation will make it all the sweeter.”

  He attended few balls, had never danced with her. He imagined holding her in his arms, gliding her over the floor. Damned bloody hell, if it wasn’t something he’d like to experience once. “Pay close attention to what I am about to reveal. It is a rare thing for any man to give away secrets that would see another shackled in marriage.”

  Her triumphant smile rocked him to his core. “You’re accepting the trade?”

  He gave a little shrug, as though the matter was of no consequence, as though he wasn’t in fact looking forward to claiming his reward. “It’ll give me an excuse to learn the waltz.”

  “You know how to waltz. I’ve seen you do so.”

  Taking satisfaction in knowing she had noticed him at a previous ball, he hoped he heard the tiniest bit of jealousy. “Have you?”

  She plucked at her skirt as though she’d suddenly spotted an invisible thread unraveling. “You’re the brother of my dearest friend. It’s not as though I’m not going to notice you on the dance floor.”

  “But you never acknowledge me on the dance floor.”

  She looked at him then, remorse in the eyes that were almost blue today. He’d noticed before how the hazel shade seemed to alter slightly depending on what she wore. “I’ve found it sometimes easier to ignore when not certain of the welcome.”

  “I might tease you on occasion, Freckles, but I would never do anything to embarrass you in public. You must know that, surely.”

  “I do now.”

  For the longest time, they only looked at each other, as though they were weighing words, confessions, interest, vulnerabilities. She was the first to glance away, licking her lips as she did so, causing a tightness low in his belly that might have dropped him to his knees had he been standing. Had she always possessed this power over him, tantalized and seduced with so little effort? Or did knowing she was in pursuit of another serve to awaken him to the notion that he’d like her to be in pursuit of him?

  But through marriage to him, she could not gain what she coveted. He cleared his throat. “Pay attention, sweetheart, and be astonished by my wisdom.”

  She bestowed upon him the most beautiful, unpretentious smile he’d ever received from her. Warm and generous, it was the sort for which men launched ships. “You are so frightfully conceited.”

  He heard no censure, only a bit of playful teasing, not the caustic tone fraught with disapproval that she’d always tossed his way in the past. “You shouldn’t complain. You’re about to benefit from my superior knowledge.”

  “Impress me, then. Tell me what I must write to win the duke’s favor.”

  Angling himself in order to view the whole of her features, he stretched his arm out along the back of the bench. Without taking his eyes from hers, he skimmed a finger over a silken curl at her shoulder. If she minded, she gave no indication, so he touched another. “Tell him your hair is like fire, your eyes like forest moss, but changeable depending on your mood. The green of plants in the garden when you’re happy, the brown of soil when you’re melancholy, the blue of the sky at dawn when passion takes hold.”

  Those eyes that tipped up slightly at the corners widened. “I’m not going to say that about passion. You certainly have never seen them when passion takes hold.”

  He’d seen even more, had seen them when she was aroused. Last night as she’d unraveled her hair, a kaleidoscope of heat, hunger, and arousal had turned them a brilliant blue. “Why the offense? Are you not excited by a fine aria? A beautiful sunset? The arrival of dessert? Especially when it includes strawberries.” He’d seen that as well. She favored strawberries. He’d feed her an entire bushel for one of her smiles.

  She dipped her head. “I thought you were referring to something else.”

  “What sort of passion did you have in mind?”

  Her head snapped up, and her hazel eyes in anger comprised all the shades. “I think you know precisely what sort of passion I assumed you were referring to.”

  Slipping a finger beneath the ringlets, he skimmed it lightly along the nape of her neck, felt the tiny hairs quiver. “Longing, yearning, craving.”

  “You shouldn’t be touching me like that.”

  “Slap my hand away. Or leave it, so we can know for certain what color your eyes become when you are stirred by desire.”

  “You do not stir me.”

  “Then, where is the harm in the touch?” Other than the fact that it did stir him to yearn for what he shouldn’t, and if he wasn’t careful in holding himself in check, she was going to know exactly how much he yearned.

  “Why would he care about my hair or my eyes?”

  “Because he wants a woman he can set upon a shelf and take down occasionally to adorn his arm.”

  “All men want that. Don’t you want a woman to adorn your arm?”

  “Of course I want a woman on my arm, but my pride in having her there would have nothing to do with the shade of her hair or her eyes. Or the delicate cut of her cheekbones or the long sweep of her neck. It would be because of her intelligence, her compassion, her boldness. I would certainly never place her upon a shelf to gather dust as though she were naught but a doll to be appreciated for her appearance rather than her mind. I would want her to share her opinion on matters, to discuss things that are important to me, to her, to argue with me, and on the rare occasion when I am wrong to convince me that she is correct. I would want her beside me because I valued her judgment, because she wasn’t afraid to be honest with me. And because she made me smile, made me laugh, made me glad to wake up with her in my arms.”

  Sometime during his ridiculous diatribe, his hand had closed around her nape as though he would guide her toward him. With her lips parted slightly, she stared at him as though she’d never heard such poppycock. Whatever had possessed him to blather on like that?

  He’d never contemplated having a wife at his side, had never considered the qualities he would want in a woman he might marry. Yet suddenly he did know what he wanted, recognized that perhaps it—she—was what he’d always wanted. Someone with a bit of competitiveness in her, who could look at a situation realistically rather than romantically, who would stand up to him. Tease him, scoff at him, tell him honestly when he was being an arse or should be better. Who made him want to be better. Who called to his better nature. Who completed him, made him feel whole, instead of only partial.

  “What sort of things would you want her opinion on?” she asked quietly. “What important matters would you want to discuss?”

  She sounded truly interested. He wondered how she might respond if his answer came in the form of a kiss. Of late, a curiosity regarding what it might be like to press his lips against hers had risen in him. To urge her to part those luscious lips in invitation, to stroke his tongue over hers, to deepen the kiss until her fingers clutched his shoulders and her sighs wafted around him.

  He watched the delicate muscles at her silky-smooth throat work as she swallowed. Had she ever pondered what a kiss between them might be like? Would she object if the hand he’d clasped around her nape drew her in closer? To ensure it didn’t, he eased it away and clutched the back of the bench instead. “If you truly want to know, meet me on the front drive after everyone has gone to bed tonight. With no chaperone.”

  She blinked, studied him. “That would be scandalous.”

  “Only if you’re caught.”

  She touched her tongue to her upper lip, before gnawing on the lower. God, she was considering it. A strange sense—he suspected it might be elation—coursed through him. He’d expected her to dismiss his challenge out of hand, not contemplate its merits. “If you meet me, you can write to Kingsland that you’re an adventurous sort.”

  “You think I’m not normally?”

  “Are you?”

  Slowly, she shook her head, seemingly embarrassed by t
he confession. “I never do anything I ought not.”

  “Whereas I do everything I ought not.”

  “Is it more fun, I wonder?”

  “It gives me stories to tell.” He bent toward her. “Don’t you want a story to tell, Lady Kathryn?”

  He couldn’t have felt her gaze traveling over his face more solidly if she’d used her fingers to trace every line, dip, and curve of his features. Why he suddenly yearned for a more intense scrutiny from her was beyond comprehension. He wasn’t usually slow-witted, but he couldn’t seem to think beyond her, beyond this moment, wondering what might be ruminating in that clever mind of hers. Would the duke appreciate a woman who could bring him to task? Would the duke want a woman who made him wonder what the devil she was thinking?

  “Why are you being so accommodating, providing me with information on how I might snag Kingsland, especially when you seem to have such a low regard for him? Do you wish to see me miserable?”

  It was the last thing he wanted for her. “Just because he selects you doesn’t mean you will be forced to marry him if you decide he’s not for you. Although, perhaps you’ll be well suited.”

  She ran her finger along the edge of her escritoire. “But why are you offering advice? Why are you helping me to secure him? We were always at cross-purposes before.”

  “Perhaps I decided that it’s time we weren’t. Besides, I already explained that I’d rather you help me up the stairs if I’m drunk.”

  “But in the morning, I’ll return to my parents’ residence, so I won’t be about to help you. What do you gain?”

  Why was she being so suspicious? Why could she not simply accept his help and her good fortune? “A waltz.”